


Life of the Party

by alexis (of_too_minds)



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angel POV, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/of_too_minds/pseuds/alexis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>W&H throws a party. Angel works the room. Sorta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life of the Party

**Author's Note:**

> This started as an experiment to get me writing again after a long hiatus, hence the second person POV which I normally don’t do.

It’s the annual something-or-other party at W&H. You don’t know and don’t care. You only agreed to the party to get Lorne to stop nattering about it. His voice gets very shrill when he’s excited and you have sensitive ears. (Vampire, remember?)

 

The buffet is stocked with every delicacy a demon could want including virgin blood. You don’t drink any. It has nothing to do with the yak’s bile punch or the slug appetizers or the diet you’re not on no matter what certain bleach blonds claim. You don’t indulge in human blood -- you’re a Champion. You’re above such petty things. (And a little afraid your friends will chain you to your bed again if they catch you having any fun. Gypsies suck.)

 

At the far end of the lobby there’s a live band banging away on a stage designed to look like a sacrificial altar. They’re probably good judging by the number of people crowding the dance floor. You squint at the mass of sweaty, gyrating bodies. You’re not sure if what they’re doing actually constitutes dancing -- it looks more like softcore porn the way they’re bouncing and rubbing and thrusting all over one another. You shake your head. You’re old enough to remember the days when the _waltz_ was considered scandalous. ~~You~~ Angelus and Darla delighted in shocking prim and proper matrons and their dewy-eyed virginal charges. Gasps were heard in drawing rooms from Vienna to London at the shameless way Darla used to press her slim body to ~~yours~~ his and writhe ever so slightly. You sigh forlornly. It’s so much harder to be lewd these days. (Stupid HBO.)

 

You glance at your watch and groan. Only five minutes since the last time you checked. Parties bore you. You abhor small talk. You never know what to say -- your best stories involve messy, bloody death, your jokes are 200 years out of date, and discussing the weather in sunny LA kills the conversation deader than you. You feel awkward and out of place among all these smiling, happy humans. And even more out of place among the demons. (Original Vampire-With-A-Soul, remember? Being a Champion hardly endears you to most hellspawn.) You shove your hands in your pockets and tell yourself it makes you look casual and cool and debonair, but really you just don’t know what else to do with them. 

 

There’s a burst of laughter from the crowd in the centre of the room. You crane your neck and spot Spike surrounded by your most important clients, the ones Gunn insisted on inviting tonight. “Of course,” you mutter to yourself, “where else would the little attention-whore be?”

 

Spike’s hands dive and swoop as he talks, graceful as swallows. Those long poet’s fingers pull laughs and smiles from thin air, deft as a puppeteer. You scowl, annoyed that it’s so easy for him to work a crowd. You tell yourself they’re just too polite to leave the bleached idiot standing all by himself, firmly ignoring the fact that they’re obviously not so polite as to come and keep you company. (They’re just intimidated because you’re the powerful CEO of a Very Important Company. It puts people off.)

 

You wonder how much trouble you’d be in if you drank one of the party guests/sycophants surrounding Spike but decide it’s not worth the lecture you’d get from Wes. They’d probably give you indigestion anyway. Clearly they’re drunk. Or high. They must be intoxicated to be entertained by _Spike_. His jokes aren’t _that_ funny. You should know, he inflicts his dreadful sense of humour on you daily. They’re just laughing because they feel sorry for him. You nod emphatically and then shrug. Or maybe they’re just really, really drunk. You resolve to speak to Lorne about it in the morning. Surely spiking the punch violates a company policy or health regulation somewhere. (Do they even have health regulations for demonic delicacies? Whatever. You make a mental note to tell Harmony to fire the caterers. That yak’s bile punch was truly revolting.)

 

You’ve been standing in one spot too long; people will start to notice soon. Your chest feels too tight to breathe and your palms are sweaty. You ball your hands into fists to hide them. (You’d wipe them dry on your pants but you’re wearing Armani and that’s just not done. Better to be rude and not shake anyone’s hand with than damage the Armani. And yes, you know perfectly well vampires don’t _have_ to breathe. Tell that to your lungs, Mr Smarty Pants Watcher.) 

 

You scan the room, desperate for someone, _anyone_ , to talk to. There’s a group of lawyers to your left. You shudder. You wouldn't willingly talk to lawyers even when you _were_ evil. To your right is a couple who seem interesting, if a little orange and scaly. Not your first choice -- Pshuonamm demons reek like garlic -- but anything is better than being accused of brooding in a corner again. You casually creep closer, hoping for a break in the conversation so you can join in and do that networking thing Cordy was always on about. 

 

The female Pshuonamm spots your approach. At least you think it’s the female; it’s hard to tell under all those scales. You paste on a big smile and straighten your shoulders. Cordy was always going on about the importance of good posture. You hated that -- it made her sound like your father. Your jaw muscle starts ticking. (Who cares if you slouch? Good posture didn’t save your father from dying on the points of ~~your~~ Angelus’s fangs, now did it?) 

 

The orange demoness’s eyes widen. She stifles a small shriek and digs her bright purple talons into her mate’s arm. He glances your way, blanches, and hurries her across the room. Your hand flies to your mouth. Oops, your fangs are showing. You shrug. (Hey, it happens sometimes. Blame Darla. She’s the one that gave you fangs in the first place.)

 

You cross your fingers and hope Spike didn’t see that less-than-stellar example of mingling. Anyway it’s his fault you’re off his game -- he’s the one monopolizing everyone worth talking to. Selfish little shit. You toss a glare his way. 

 

The crowd around Spike miraculously shifts, granting him a clear view of you and the approximately 10 foot bubble of clear space around you. (Fucking universe hates you.) Spike tilts his head in that way he does that makes him look like a curious bird eyeing a particularly fat and juicy worm. He nods absently at one of the fawning toadies hanging on his every word and starts to glide through the crowd towards you.

 

You quickly spin around and stare at a fascinating if somewhat nauseating piece of art hanging on the wall behind you. You’re irritated and a little mortified that _Spike_ of all people just happened to catch you standing by yourself like some kind of loser. Which you’re not. You’re a Champion. And you run a really big law firm. You own a whole building, damn it. Two if you count the Hyperion. 

 

The crowd surrounding Spike titters. You scowl. You just know the little turd made a joke about you using those stupid British expressions that don’t make any sense to anybody this side of the pond. Well, except for Wes. And Giles. Whatever. (Why can’t he just insult you in American? Jerk.)

 

A drink suddenly appears between you and the painting. You blink at it in confusion. It’s electric blue and has one of those little pink umbrellas in it. Since when does Spike drink something so girly? And why the hell would he think you do??? Affronted, you turn to complain about the drink choice, only to have your ire derailed by a beaming Lorne in place of the smirking blond you expected to see. You blink in surprise. Ahh, well that explains the pink umbrella. You swallow the lump in your throat and tell yourself it’s relief and not disappointment. (Who’d want to talk to Spike anyway?)

 

Lorne is wearing a sparkly chartreuse and vermilion suit. It brings out his eyes. You mumble a compliment on his choice in formal wear. He pouts, a hurt look in his eyes. You glance down, wondering if someone just stepped on his toes. Nope. Just you and him in your bubble. Strange. 

 

Lorne rolls his eyes and shoves the drink in your hand. “Here. You look like you need this, Angelcakes.” 

 

You scowl, insulted. Granted you may not have seen your reflection in a while but you’re positive you don’t look like you need a girly drink. 

 

“Don’t just stand there holding up the wall, big guy,” Lorne chides. “You need to get out there and mingle. Show them the lighter side of W&H.”

 

You eye him suspiciously. “You aren’t going to make me sleep with Eve again, are you?” 

 

Lorne huffs. “Not to worry, big guy. I slept like a baby Wzurl demon sucking on it’s momma’s teat last night.”

 

You wonder it that’s supposed to be a good thing. Aren’t Wzurl demons born with a full set of sharp, pointy teeth?

 

Suddenly Lorne squeals and clutches your arm. You wince, your aforementioned sensitive ears ringing. He starts babbling something about stars and some guy named Oscar. It might as well be in Sanskrit. (Or maybe not, seeing as you might actually understand him if he were speaking in Sanskrit.) You shrug. Lorne rolls his eyes at you and flounces off. You stare mournfully at your rumpled suit sleeve. Your hideously expensive rumpled Armani suit sleeve. Does no one appreciate good tailoring anymore?

 

In desperation, you eye your drink. Sure it might be electric blue with a teeny pink umbrella but you can smell the alcohol in it so it can’t be as bad as it looks. Shrugging, you take a sip. Something that might be fruity if it weren’t so sugary explodes across your tongue. You can’t taste the alcohol although you know it must be in there. Frustrated, you tip back the glass and swallow half the cocktail in one go. You hear a familiar baritone chuckle. Your stomach drops. Figures. Spike has the worst timing. You eye what’s left of your poofy drink and brace yourself for a litany of strange British insults. 

 

Spike plucks the glass from your hand. He sniffs it disdainfully and shudders. “Poor sod,” he murmurs. The offending drink is deposited on a passing waiter’s tray. He hands you a cut glass tumbler instead. Your mouth waters. It’s 18-year-old Jameson, you can tell by the distinctive scent. Spike knows what you like. You sip it slowly, savoring the burn as it slides down your throat.

 

Spike moves to stand at your side. You both lean against the wall -- two predators half-hidden in shadows. 

 

“Good party,” Spike says quietly, tilting his glass at the humans on the dance floor.

 

Your shoulder brushes Spike’s. “Yes,” you murmur. “It is.” You hide your smile behind your glass.

 

 

FIN


End file.
